


wessen atem kommt mich kosen?

by ladanse



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Choking, Crying, M/M, Porn With Plot, Prison Sex, Telepathic Sex, Touch-Starved, unnecessary drama as per my usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 21:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladanse/pseuds/ladanse
Summary: The command is clumsy and instantaneous, accompanied by the suggestion of a scotch-hangover:Don't speak.





	wessen atem kommt mich kosen?

**Author's Note:**

> pls see the end notes for some brief warnings guys - ableism and a note about consent.
> 
> title means "whose breath has come to caress me?" and is from georg trakl's "in einem verlassenen zimmer" ("in a deserted room") which is a fantastic poem btw
> 
> \--
> 
> @MissSpock, happy belated birthday :) 
> 
> written for a challenge & fic exchange aka both of us sat down and thought, _i want to write smut but am too chickenshit to do it alone_
> 
> (i love you babe but why are we like this)
> 
> also: to the two other people who follow this account: i fuckin see you. don't you dare click okay on that 'over 18' message. i know ur not. what i'm saying is comment on this fic if u dare but just remember i KnOw yOuR mOMS

 

If the eternally frenetic electrons in carbon were but slightly less sluggish, Erik's plastic prison would have long dissolved into sooty monomers, and he would walk free, reborn with coal dusting his shoulders and marring his cheeks.

  
The days that have passed are a divergent series: limitless. Erik measures his posture by the orthogonal slope of the wall behind him; he closes his eyes and breathes in, and out.

  
Then - the plastic squelches, a bright noise just beyond his threshold of sensation. Nothing has moved; no air has been displaced; neither has a single intimate atom in the construction around him.

  
Two things: Someone has made a mistake, and Erik opens his eyes.

  
His mouth is next to open, and the command is clumsy and instantaneous, accompanied by the suggestion of a scotch-hangover: _Don't speak_.

  
*

  
The bullet curved. It _did_ , and Charles knows, because he spent the days after the assassination off Hank's wonder drugs; his mind clear and sober for the first time in - well. It had been a while, let's just leave it at that, shall we.

  
Regardless - the bullet curved, someone voiced the whisper of unfair play before Charles could sit up, and Erik - Magneto - was being held - uh. Somewhere. Charles couldn't be arsed to care. He had confided this to his grandfather's bottle of Macallan six times; Hank had kept count. Hank had done a lot of things, actually, like building him five new chairs and then a new genomic construct and then keeping him from drowning in his own vomit when Charles wasn't really sure whether he would have minded -

  
\- let's just leave it at that.

  
*

  
"Don't speak," says Charles.

  
*

  
The first phantom touch of Charles' hand is to the rigid gun calluses of his left knuckle. Erik does not speak, will not speak, but the slide of living carbon, skin to skin, pushes the air out his lungs, a natural pacemaker. His gasp is a soft presence in the white room, pitched with a hint of hoarseness, and suddenly the touch moves to his lips.

  
Erik does not remember how to move; he does not know when he opened his eyes. What he knows is that the touch to his mouth is soft and warm, and that he wishes that it were the shape of lips and not fingertips.

  
The twitch of his own fingers in his lap is perfunctorily, ruthlessly suppressed; his hands are abruptly immobile. Then - the crushing grip releases, shoves, desperately; Erik's gorge rises with a loathing for Charles that's not his; and the touch is gone.

  
Erik closes his eyes, and breathes out.

  
*

  
_Don't speak._

  
*

 

When he wakes, Charles is cold, and his upper body tenses reflexively, his arm rising to find the blanket that he has undoubtedly flung off in his sleep. But - the blanket is there. His legs don't curl close like they do, sometimes, when he has the strength to take his medicine before bed. Instead, they lie immobile, one foot sticking out from beneath the coverlet.

  
His fingertips tingle with the memory of a thumbed-over callus.

  
Charles turns his head, just slightly, to wipe his wet face on his pillow, and then forces his mind back into sleep.

  
*

  
Erik cannot tell days - one, two, three hundred, four-thousand two-hundred and sixty-two. But he can tell once, and more, and again.

  
Charles is here again.

  
The touch is surer, the gift of a palm cupping his cheek, a caress over the line of his shoulder and collarbone with an inherent weight. Surety, certainty, the ease of experience - and warmth.

  
No one has touched him in two years.

  
Erik has learned his lesson: he does not speak. He does not move. He closes his eyes, and breathes in, and breathes out, and he is touched.

  
An astonishment that his mind is unfractured - not his. But his as well, with a twist more of wryness and a heap less of guilt and not a bit of pride, and no, not his at all.

  
*

  
"Don't speak," murmurs Charles, as he rises from sleep, and - well, bless Hank, he takes it in stride.

  
"Of course, Professor - "

  
"It's Charles, Hank, please."

  
"Of course," says Hank. His face is twisting into a moue of concern. "You're pale."

  
"I was dreaming," he says, and plucks a syringe from his bedside table.

  
*

  
Patterns fill his days: patterns of the hexagonal tiles, of the carbon polymer around him, of the guards' rounds, of Charles' comings and goings.

  
The touches become routine as everything else. Erik might have been fed, today; the next he might receive a caress, dreamlike, or a touch of lips to his forehead. He needs one more than the other; sustenance is not what sustains him.

  
A year passes, and he has not spoken, just in case.

  
*

  
It is a dreary October morning, and Charles wakes up aching for touch, the rasp of stubble close on his fingertips.

  
He slides the tip of his thumb against his palm, absently, and flings his other hand outwards, groping for a needle. When he can't find one, he frowns, sits up, runs his hands through his hair, sighs. The stillness twitches around him.

  
Charles is hard, as he always is after nights like these - dreams like these - and today his skin is restless, his cock tenting the front of his pajamas. He allows himself to give in; one hand slides downward, to the border between sensation and paresthesia, the other swipes roughly across his nipples. Charles lets himself feel Erik's stubble scraping his chin, his stomach, the tender space in between his thighs, hear the gravel of Erik's voice whispering brokenly in his ear -

  
\- and he comes with a desperate sort of gasp. Charles rubs his clean hand over his face, and wishes he could stop dreaming.

  
*

  
Erik is allowed one shower precisely every twelve guard cycles; or, rather, he is allowed the seven-minute privilege of being shoved into a sagging, transparent sac while carefully filtered water hoses him down from four different angles. One minute to soap, another to dry; the US government is quite generous.

  
Erik thinks he longs for a hot shower most of all. Spending his life on the hunt has made it a rare luxury, but one he craved all the same - and if the water had been warm, seven minutes would have been more than enough; would have allowed him to escape the hard-walled cell of his own mind, to relax his muscles in preparation for a pounce.

  
Not that seven minutes would be enough time to truly unwind - to get himself off; not that Erik's even remotely had the desire since - well, since Cuba, actually, but the thought is nice. Charles would laugh if he voiced it aloud, but Erik has always been the more hopeful of the two.

  
And then, one day - Charles is here, again.

  
*

  
Charles has never tried this when awake.

  
Strictly speaking, he'd like to say that he's never tried this at all, but it wouldn't be true. Charles is too selfish to stop reaching.

  
"Don't - " he begins, but Erik's mind just crackles with a wry sort of amusement. Wordless, he tilts his body into the spray, hangs his head down. Charles - well - he reaches towards the guards' minds, has one of them set the camera on loop, and then places himself in front of Erik, dropping to his knees. Erik's imagination fills in the gaps in his mental reach quite well enough, with an undertone of gentle astonishment that leaves Charles' mind blank and his cock aching desperately in his trousers. He must be too obvious; Erik's hand cards gently where his hair would be, once, just before he comes against the plastic wall of the shower.

  
In the manor, Charles comes back to himself, his breathing harsh and the vivid, imagined taste of Erik still on his tongue. His hand slips on the wheel of his chair as he backs out of Cerebro, ignoring the tent in his lap and the fine tremor in his hands.

  
"Hank," he calls, and then, when he doesn't get an answer, louder. "Hank!"

  
"Charles," says Hank, breathless. "Is something wrong?"

  
Charles clenches his fist. "I need another dose."

  
*

  
"Don't - "

  
\- but Erik takes a calm breath and breaks the rule. "Get out."

  
Charles' face fractures briefly, flickers, and then vanishes.

  
Erik breathes out.

  
*

  
"Please," says Charles.

  
Erik studies him. His eyes are fractured and a little wild; his hair's been run through and half of it's standing on end. He's in a chair this time, which - hurts, more than Erik expected - and the chair is plastic, which is worse.

  
"Meticulous as ever, Charles, even in a vision," says Erik. He waits for Charles' eyes to flash with anger - which they do - and for him to disappear - which he doesn't. He simply sits there, and looks.

  
Erik reaches forward, running his hand along the rim of one of the wheels. "Nice design," he says. "Borrowing from Hank's blueprints?"

  
"From Hank's prototypes, actually," says Charles, evenly. Erik feels his brow furrow. Charles wheels forward, and picks up Erik's food tray, studying it.

  
Erik stares, and then understands. "You're _here_ ," he says, slowly.

  
"Thought it was obvious."

  
"Why?"

  
"I wanted a fuck," says Charles, bluntly; but his voice shakes. Erik ignores it.

  
"Then put the tray down," he says, "and strip."

  
Charles opens his mouth, and Erik presses a finger, cruelly hard, to his bottom lip. "Don't," he says, enunciating carefully, "speak."

  
Charles' eyes flare in challenge, and he leans back, setting his arms on the rests of his chair. He won't undress himself, then; but his mouth stays firmly shut. Erik knows when he's won.

  
He lifts his hands, testing, and finds Charles' clothing bare of metal. Then - he means to start on Charles' neat bowtie, yank it roughly out of place, and instead his fingers linger, just noticeably, on the curve of Charles' throat. The man quirks a characteristic eyebrow, and Erik bares his teeth in return, swiping his thumb across the vulnerable hollow over Charles' larynx. Then the bowtie comes undone, ripped under the strength of Erik's coiled hands; a button pops as his fingers work their way down Charles' shirt. He hasn't allowed himself to touch Charles' skin, yet; five years in a plastic prison have taught him patience, if nothing else.

  
Charles holds a wrist out, imperious, and Erik obliges him, unbuttoning his cuffs - no cufflinks - and then, turning his hand, exposes the underside of Charles' wrist and draws it to his mouth. He bites, hard, watching for a reaction; Charles' eyelids flutter, and a stifled sound leaves his mouth unbidden.

  
Erik grins, and watches a pretty flush travel down Charles' chest.

  
Charles glares, and his frustrated arousal is so familiar that Erik's chest begins to ache, dully. He thumbs a hand over Erik's mouth - a warm, living touch - and Erik can't help the way air leaves him in a gasp. Charles pulls his hand back, testing, and Erik lashes out, quick as a whip, curling dry fingers around the warm weight of Charles' wrist. Charles lets his fingers brush Erik's cheek.

  
Erik's awareness narrows to the point of contact; he's dizzy. Charles knows, as he always does, but then again Charles looks a bit shell-shocked himself. He taps his fingers against Erik's lips. Erik raises an eyebrow, and Charles' mouth lifts in half a bitter grin. The words ring in his head - _Do you want them in your ass or not?_

  
Erik's blood rushes dizzily toward his cock. "No Vaseline, Charles?" says Erik, dry-mouthed, permitting himself to speak. "Disappointing." But he takes Charles' fingers in his mouth anyway, letting his tongue run roughly through the spaces between, getting them wet and sloppy. He sucks a little, to be contrary, and Charles squirms, eyes bright and dangerous. Finally, he can't take it; Charles rips his fingers from Erik's mouth and nudges him to stand, working clumsily one-handed on Erik's loose prison uniform.

  
Erik reaches down and thumbs Charles' nipple, reveling in Charles' whimper, and then does it again, to be cruel. Charles' mouth has fallen open, his lips bright red and bitten, and Erik wants to watch him choke on his cock.

  
Charles looks up at him, eyes defiant, and says, _Do your worst, then_.

  
Erik's eyes flash. He shoves Charles' hands out of the way, leaving one proprietary hand wrapped sinuously around the hollow of Charles' throat. "Open," he says, and doesn't wait before pushing the head of his cock, already beading with precome at the head, between Charles' lips. Charles makes a muffled noise, shifting his jaw, and Erik forces himself not to wince at the warning scrape of teeth.

  
"You came to me," he says, unable to say more, and fucks into Charles' throat again, and then again. Charles finally - finally, opens to him, cheeks hollowing and sucking messily, and - it's very, very good. Another hard thrust and Erik hisses with the sheer, wild-eyed pleasure of it, of the plushness of Charles' lips and the feel of Charles' chest beneath his fingers, and he realizes that he's already close.

  
A blunt, cold finger nudges at his entrance, and Erik's spine electrifies. He stops moving, overcome, distantly aware of his own harsh breathing. Charles' eyes sparkle with cold amusement in front of him, and Erik - he's suddenly incandescent with rage. That Charles can come here, glib and distant, and dare to _enjoy_ this - Charles' finger slips inside him, and Erik's hips jerk forward, cruelly. Charles chokes, composure lost, and Erik allows himself the savage pleasure of doing it again. He coughs, attempts to draw back - but Erik tightens his grip on Charles' throat. _Not yet_ , he thinks, and softer, _please_.

  
Charles hears it, smug, and pushes his finger deeper into Erik's ass, twisting and opening and tapping in a maddeningly assured way: this is not new territory for either of them, although Erik would rather forget. Then Charles' middle finger joins his first; Erik breathes through the intrusion just as Charles hollows his cheeks, sucking hard, and moans helplessly into the crook of his own shoulder. His fingers are tight enough on Charles' throat to leave bruises, and Erik thinks, those are mine, and they will last - and at last, he tips over the edge, his world whiting out completely, hips jerking into Charles' mouth, watching come spill messily over his lips.

  
Charles swallows, wipes a hand over his mouth, and watches Erik, a strange look on his face; Erik registers suddenly that there are tears on his cheeks.

  
"Fuck," he says, harshly, and turns his face away; his knees are not strong enough to support more movement.

  
"Erik," says Charles, speaking for the first time, and Erik - cannot. Will not. He leans unsteadily forward instead, palming over the front of Charles' trousers, fumbling at the zipper. Charles stops him with a hand at his wrist, and when Erik meets his eyes, they are cold, detached.

  
"That won't do much good," says Charles, moving Erik's hand upwards, and his eyes say, It's your fault.

  
Erik cannot use his powers, but he has his strength; he lurches to his feet and shoves' Charles' chair away, staring fixedly at his plastic tray, lying upside down on his white plastic floor.

  
"You've gotten all you're getting," says Erik. "Now get out."

  
"Erik - " says Charles, voice wide and cracking. Erik refuses to turn and look.

  
"Enjoyed rooting around in my head?" he says instead. Cruelty is easy. "Do yourself a favor, before you leave, and get rid of this while you're at it."

  
"What - "

  
"Do it," says Erik, "and then don't come back."

  
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Charles lift a shaking hand to his temple.

  
*

  
The plane is loud and stifling and uncomfortable.

  
"You sacrificed your powers," says Erik, slow and haughty and dripping with contempt, "so you could walk?"

  
"I sacrificed my powers so I could _sleep_ ," replies Charles, but his voice breaks; his gaze skitters to the airplane's leather seats, and Erik - he decides not to ask.

  
*

_Don't speak._

 

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: brief ableist language at some bits, directed by charles towards himself, as well as some ableism toward the end in terms of how erik views charles' injury in light of their sex etc. also obvs some consent issues bc while both of them want to have sex, Erik is in prison and his mental health is compromised; both of which impact his ability to give clear consent
> 
> hope y'all enjoyed this suffering lmao


End file.
